“The man that called himself Jack Tier is in her, sir.”
“The d——l he is!” cried Spike, springing over to the opposite side of the deck to take a look for himself. To his infinite satisfaction he perceived that Tier was alone in the skiff, with the exception of a negro, who pulled its sculls, and that this was a very different boat from that which had glanced through Hell-Gate, like an arrow darting from its bow.
“Luff, and shake your topsail,” called out Spike. “Get a rope there to throw to this skiff.”
The orders were obeyed, and Jack Tier, with his clothes-bag, was soon on the deck of the Swash. As for the skiff and the negro, they were cast adrift the instant the latter had received his quarter. The meeting between Spike and his quondam steward’s mate was a little remarkable. Each stood looking intently at the other, as if to note the changes which time had made. We cannot say that Spike’s hard, red, selfish countenance betrayed any great feeling, though such was not the case with Jack Tier’s. The last, a lymphatic, puffy sort of a person at the best, seemed really a little touched, and he either actually brushed a tear from his eye, or he affected so to do.
“So, you are my old shipmate, Jack Tier, are ye?” exclaimed Spike, in a half-patronizing, half-hesitating way—“and you want to try the old craft ag’in. Give us a leaf of your log, and let me know where you have been this many a day, and what you have been about. Keep the brig off, Mr. Mulford. We are in no particular hurry to reach Throg’s, you’ll remember, sir.”
Tier gave an account of his proceedings, which could have no interest with the reader. His narrative was any thing but very clear, and it was delivered in a cracked, octave sort of a voice, such as little dapper people not unfrequently enjoy—tones between those of a man and a boy. The substance of the whole story was this. Tier had been left ashore, as sometimes happens to sailors, and, by necessary connection, was left to shift for himself. After making some vain endeavors to rejoin his brig, he had shipped in one vessel after another, until he accidentally found himself in the port of New York, at the same time as the Swash. He know’d he never should be truly happy ag’in until he could once more get aboard the old hussy, and had hurried up to the wharf, where he understood the brig was lying. As he came in sight, he saw she was about to cast off, and, dropping his clothes-bag, he had made the best of his way to the wharf, where the conversation passed that has been related.
“The gentleman on the wharf was about to take boat, to go through the Gate,” concluded Tier, “and so I begs a passage of him. He was good-natured enough to wait until I could find my bag, and as soon a’terwards as the men could get their grog we shoved off. The Molly was just getting in behind Blackwell’s as we left the wharf, and, having four good oars, and the shortest road, we come out into the Gate just ahead on you. My eye! what a place that is to go through in a boat, and on a strong flood! The gentleman, who watched the brig as a cat watches a mouse, says you struck on the Pot, as he called it, but I says, ‘no,’ for the Molly Swash was never know’d to hit rock or shoal in my time aboard her.”
“And where did you quit that gentleman, and what has become of him?” asked Spike.
“He put me ashore on that point above us, where I see’d a nigger with his skiff, who I thought would be willin’ to ’arn his quarter by giving me a cast along side. So here I am, and a long pull I’ve had to get here.”
As this was said, Jack removed his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief, which, if it had never seen better days, had doubtless been cleaner. After this, he looked about him, with an air not entirely free from exultation.